Rage vs. anxiety

In a recent post at Random and Odd, Kristine asked which was preferable, anxiety attacks or pent up anger?

I've been thinking about this, because while I have never had a full-blown anxiety attack, I did have feelings of severe anxiety when I had post-partum depression after Audrey was born. I was literally afraid of her...afraid she would cry, afraid she would want to nurse on my poor already sore breasts, afraid of how her crying would escalate if she did not get what she wanted RIGHT AWAY.

And I was also angry, and I was afraid of that. I don't really know WHAT I was angry at. It isn't logical to be angry at a helpless baby, though sometimes I think I guilted myself out because she was the logical object of my anger, and there were times I was seroiusly afraid of what I might be capable of doing. I've recently realized that I wasn't angry at her, though. I was angry at my circumstances. Angry at feeling helpless, at being isolated, angry that my expectations of a sweet, easy baby had not been met.

So I've been both anxious and angry, and folks, I couldn't choose one over the other. It's like a kidnapper asking which of my children he should kidnap: NEITHER.

Lately I've noticed this anger coming back. Although I got off of Prozac as soon as I got pregnant with Aislinn, I went right back on an antidepressant (Zoloft this time) a few weeks after she was born because I felt the old rage coming back. It has helped. Or at least, until recently. I don't know if my recent anger is the same anger I felt then, or if it's related to something completely different. I think it is all connected at the root, though. I think ultimately I am probably angry because I don't feel I have very much say in my life at this point. I am a slave to my kids and to my husband. I don't mean I blame them, at least not the kids, but it is frustrating, to say the least, to have every single task I attempt interrupted within five minutes of starting it. It's frustrating to spend two days cleaning the house, and within 18 hours see it looking even worse than it did before. It's frustrating to have a stack of books from the library that I have to return late and mostly unread because there was just no time. It's frustrating feeling as if I need to ask permission to take an evening to go to Borders for a chai and a magazine when my poor little introverted self is dying for one hour of solitude. And it's frustrating to feel my brain go to mush while my bachelor's degree and part of a master's languish unused.

Yes, I'm angry! I'm angry that I am stuck in this house day after tedious day, while my husband gets to talk to other grown-ups, listen to real music on the car radio, have lunch out in a restaurant most days. Never mind that we both agree that it's important for the kids to have a stay-at-home parent, and that I'm the one of us best-suited for the task. That doesn't change the tedium of the days, the longing I feel for real accomplishment. I don't even mean wanting to go out to work. I'd just be happy if I could get the laundry folded and put away every day.

And I'm angry that my husband seems to believe that the majority of the housework should fall on me because I'm home with the kids. HELLO??? I'm HOME WITH THE KIDS. They are my priority during the day, my job, if you will. I get what housework that I can done, but it's not nearly as much as he thinks it could be, and he doesn't seem to get that I would appreciate more help in the evenings.

I'm afraid that I've started to "check out" with the kids. I may be physically present, supervising them, taking care of them, but I'm not always "present" for them. When I was in China I started reading whenever I ate meals because I often ate alone, and reading while I ate made me feel less lonely. I realized not long ago that I still read when I'm eating when Leo is not there, even if the kids are eating with me, and I've done it every since Audrey was a baby. That might not seem like a big deal, but really, what I'm virtually doing is ignoring them. I realize I AM still lonely, the way I was sometimes in China, and reading has always been one way I cope with loneliness. But avoiding interacting with my kids is inexcusable.

I haven't worked on my beading much lately, and though I thought the gig at Habitat would be rewarding (I think I actually forgot to blog about the fact that I actually got it!), it hasn't really addressed my need for adult interaction (data entry is a fairly isolated task!).

I've been seeing a therapist since early last spring. A few months ago Leo started coming with me so we could work on some of our issues as a couple. But I think I need to start seeing her by myself as well again for a while. I think the tendrils of depression are trying to wrap themselves around my soul again, and I'm tired of trying to mask it with drugs. The drugs make it easy to cope with, but they don't make the root of it go away.

I haven't talked a whole lot about this before here, but it's been on my mind. And that's what I write about.

I just want to be well. I'm tired of being sad or anxious or angry.